


Misalignment

by doomcanary



Series: Mis Adventures [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Police, Pre-Slash, Transgender, Transsexual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:18:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1418158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to part one (and a bit) of the brand new Mis Adventures series. In this instalment, a prequel to the original gratuitous smut. How Mis met Porthos and how they came to be :)</p><p> </p><p>  <b>TW for setting-appropriate racism and homophobia.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> By popular demand (ie, more than one person asked), here's more of the adventures of Mis. 
> 
> I've got a stinking cold at the moment so I'm cuddled up writing fanfic to cheer myself up, but long term I'm hoping to turn this into a 3-4 fic series with two or three chapters each. Let me know what you think :)

There are half a dozen police vans scattered about the nearby streets in the grey predawn; above the half-empty car park the block of flats looms, a squatting, discoloured concrete toad. Porthos hates places like this. All staircases and corridors. Too many places to hide. Too much like home. They're hiding themselves, backs to the wall at the bottom of one of the staircases, waiting for the go. The kevlar vest encloses him like a shell, and he shifts his sweating palms on the grip of his gun.

The sergeant's radio clicks and chatters. He gives them the nod.

It goes to hell in seconds. The dealer had seen one of the vans. They break in the door to find him with a gun to the jaw of a sweating junkie. Three more are passed out on filthy mattresses. Inspector Treville was first in the door, and he hods up his hands, palms out, stilling the officers at his back.

“All right, Mister Smithson,” he says. “Let's not get anyone shot who doesn't need it.”

“You let me out of here. You let me go, or I'll kill him.”

Porthos can't believe how thick these people are. The whole block is crawling with coppers. How far does he think he's going to get?

Outside the dogs bark. The dealer's hand tightens on the gun. Porthos remembers exactly how close he came to being this guy, once.

“Weapons down, gentlemen,” Treville orders them. “Back out slowly.”

Stupid idiot! What's he trying to do, get himself killed?

“You too, Porthos,” Treville says. Inwardly, Porthos swears.

“Now,” he hears Treville say, his tone grimly ironic as Porthos backs onto the landing outside. “Why don't you let that poor bastard go, and I'll give you a nice police inspector instead.”

Seconds later the terrified junkie staggers out of the front door. There's a surreally awkward moment as they look at him and he looks at them. Porthos wants to nod hello.

“This way, sir,” says the sergeant, gesturing down the stairs. “We'll let the ambulance crew check you over first.”

The junkie runs. Whatever. Porthos hears shouting as he's caught by the guys outside. Looks like he's getting his checkup, then.

Treville's either insane or a fucking genius, Porthos can't tell. They're ordered back down to the car park outside. Half an hour passes and a negotiator arrives with a megaphone. Treville talks the dealer into coming out to the balcony to talk.

When he sees the empty hallway, Smithson cuts and runs. Radios scream and they're piling into the stairwells, and it turns into a rat hunt of the worst imaginable kind. Porthos is painfully aware of the fragile bubbles behind every door; every family, every life. All waiting to be destroyed by this idiot and his gun. If there's a god of coppers, Porthos thanks him for pushing him to do the right thing.

Smithson starts letting off shots as he dodges and hides. Glass breaks and people scream. God don't let them get hurt.

He's racing down a short hallway when he sees Smithson dart past the open end. Someone shouts something, and Porthos skids out of the hallway, gun up. Two other officers nearly collide with him.

Smithson's cornered – but he's cornered one of them. The balcony has no other exit. Past Smithson's figure Porthos can see a uniform. The guy's tiny, can't be more than a kid. The dawn light glitters on his shoulder pips as he breathes, hard and deep. His face is set. His weapon is not in his hands.

“You ain't going nowhere, Smithson,” Porthos growls. “Let it go.”

The kid raises his hands, and slides down the balcony railings to sit on the floor. Smithson throws a half glance over his shoulder and levels his pistol at the kid.

“You let me go,” he says again. “You let me walk away.”

There's a yell from the hallway to Porthos's left and running feet come piling toward them. Smithson flinches, half-turning, and in the same moment Porthos squeezes his trigger, the kid whips out the gun he's apparently had stuck into the back of his vest and fires. Smithson's shoulder explodes in a mist of red, and a light fitting shatters somewhere above Porthos's head.

 

 

When it's all over, Smithson strapped to a gurney and the ambulance away, Porthos goes to look for the kid. He finds him sitting on the cracked concrete wall of a barren flower bed at the back of the flats. His arms are folded tight over his stomach, as if to protect himself. The kevlar vest and gun are gone.

“You all right?” he asks. The little guy looks up.

“That's a stupid fucking question,” he replies.

Porthos sits down next to him. He's shaking so much it's obvious from a foot away. Porthos lays a gentle hand on his back.

“Hey,” he says. “Nobody's all right after something like that. Least you get to go home early today.”

“I wish that was the problem,” says the kid.

Porthos looks at him in confusion. His face is tight with the near-hysteria of adrenaline, but there's something else in his expression as well.

“This your first op?”

“In a sense.”

“You join up straight out of school then?”

Brown eyes look up at him in surprise. “I'm twenty-nine.”

“You lucky bastard.”

Tiny snorts. “Depends whether your definition of luck is getting ID'd every time you buy a pint.”

He's shaking a bit less now. Porthos counts that as a win.

“I'm Porthos, by the way.”

“Aramis.” The hand he shakes is cold as ice, and the trembling still evident in the muscles of his arm.

“They'll be after us to load up in a minute,” says Porthos after a while.

“Oh god. I hate having to go back to being the macho man.”

Porthos's mouth quirks. “You know what the Inspector said to me on my first day?”

“Stop acting like a fucking nun?”

“Nah, that was my second day.” They both laugh. Treville has little patience for sensitive nerves.

“He said you can be anything you want in the police, black, a woman, gay, whatever, but if you want to fit in you've got to act like a straight white guy.”

Aramis looks up at him with something unreadable in his eyes.

“One out of three's a start then, I suppose.”

Porthos's eyebrows climb. “You don't look brown,” he says.

“I'm not. Long story.” He pauses. “Anyway.”

Wearily, he pushes himself up off the concrete and stands, holding out his hand. “Best foot forward and all that. Porthos, right?”

“Yeah,” says Porthos, realising he'd like to keep talking to the guy. He shakes the cold hand a second time. “See you around.”

 

 

It's two days later when Porthos feels a hand on his elbow, and turns to see the little guy's face again.

“Hey,” he says. “All right?”

“Sort of,” says Aramis. “Have you got a minute?”

“Anything to get away from this paperwork,” Porthos grumbles, eyeing the thick wedge of incident report forms beside him.

“Let's get a cuppa then.”

Porthos likes builder's tea. Three sugars, about a third of the mug full of milk, and squash the teabag around with the spoon till it's the bright healthy orange of a celebrity tan. Aramis, apparently, does Earl Grey without anything. The sharp aroma fills the shabby kitchen.

“So what's happening?” asks Porthos.

“It's that whole shootout thing,” says Aramis. “I dunno, I just.. I needed to talk to someone.”

Porthos feels a swell of pride; he's always liked to be able to take care of his friends.

“Was that your first time?” he said.

“Sort of... it's... look, do you mind if I tell you something?”

Porthos shakes his head, wondering where this is headed.

“I just need to tell someone,” Aramis goes on. “It's driving me mad.” He's looking down at the floor but it doesn't look like he's seeing it; his eyes are turned inwards.

“I'm not going to judge,” says Porthos. “Straight white guy, remember?”

“Yeah. About that.” He swallows. “I used to be a woman.”

There's a moment's silence.

“Seriously?” Porthos says.

Aramis looks up at him wide-eyed. “Well, yeah,” he says. “Why would I lie about it?”

Porthos's mind is working double time. He can't help looking Aramis up and down, looking for whatever it is he missed that should have clued him in. He is a bit wide in the hips, now Porthos looks – he's straight up and down, not wider in the shoulders like some guys. It makes him look young. He's surprised, for sure, but then there's nothing as weird as people in the end. It's nice to find out a secret that's not to do with fraud, theft or GBH, if he's honest.

“Hang on,” he says. “What's that got to do with the other day?”

Aramis gives a wry laugh. Porthos belatedly realises Aramis has just had to watch the once-over he was giving him, as if he was some hoodie-wearing piece of scum. He feels bad about that; he remembers the skinheads where he grew up, with runic tattoos on their knuckles, combat boots and flinty little eyes. They used to eye him up that way when they saw him in the street. He nicks people like that now – paki-bashers, gay-bashers, UKIP scrotes. He's glad he does.

“It wasn't my first time out in the field,” Aramis says, “but it was the first time since I transitioned.”

“Since you what?”

“Did this.” Aramis waves at himself.

“Oh.” Porthos still isn't quite following.

“It's just... I feel like I'm not supposed to talk about it now. Like I'm not allowed to be freaked out now I'm a man.”

Porthos pauses. “I suppose you're not used to that,” he says.

“You might say that, yeah,” says Aramis. “I mean I know it's not easy on anyone-”

“Everyone freaks out after something like that,” Porthos cuts in. “Seriously. Just because most of uniform don't say it doesn't mean they're not all over the place. Dave Bartram had the shits all day yesterday.”

“Thanks for that,” says Aramis dryly.

“For real though,” said Porthos. “It gets to you.”

“You seem to be doing all right.”

“I wasn't the one playing decoy,” Porthos said.

“Unlike yours truly.”

“Too right. You should have got some leave after that.”

“I wasn't in yesterday. Thought I ought to get back on the horse, though.”

“Yeah,” says Porthos. “There is that.” He meets Aramis's eyes and gives a wry grin, trying to communicate his support.

The gaze between them holds just that little bit too long. Aramis blinks and looks away, self-conscious.

“It's not an easy job, this,” Porthos says, and he doesn't quite know where it comes from.

Aramis smiles, and puts down his tea mug to leave.

“Thatnks a lot for this,” he says.

“Any time.”

He feels a fleeting squeeze of a hand on his arm.

“You're a nice guy, Porthos. See you again.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys catch up, and more than a few things are changing for Aramis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short update today, but a little something sweet for Beltane :)

It's a scorching June afternoon, not a cloud in the achingly blue sky, and the annual station summer jolly is well under way. A greasy miasma of hog roast smoke wafts up from one corner of the pub car park that's been hired for the event, a Queen tribute band is playing in an undersized marquee, and the profusion of lobster-red shaved heads and godawful Primark earrings is worthy of any Ibizan beach holiday.

Aramis threads through the crowd to the shed serving as a second bar and worms his way up to a couple of rows from the front. It's handy to be short sometimes. He's just about to get a shot at an order when he feels a heavy tap on his shoulder and looks round to see Porthos behind him.

“Hey!” he says delightedly. He's already had a couple of beers and the world is very slightly warm and unfocused. “Long time no see!”

“Ain't it,” says Porthos. “Didn't think I was going to make this.”

“Lucky,” Aramis smiles. “What are you drinking?”

“Pint of Carling,” says Porthos. “Thanks.”

“So how you doing?” says Aramis, as they shuffle from side to side in the press, letting a portly middle-aged PC past with his massive hands carrying three plastic pint glasses apiece.

“Same old same old. How about you?”

“Last day in uniform next week,” says Aramis. “Bit of a celebration today!”

“Where you off to?”

“Crime squad,” says Aramis. “Intelligence. Bit more up my street than hands-on policing, I reckon.”

Porthos catches the barman's eye. “Pint of Carling, please, and – what are you having?”

“Cider,” says Aramis. “Magners'll do.”

“And a Magners.”

Aramis is actually between Porthos and the bar. The familiar twinge of resignation at being passed over for someone taller is somewhat softened by the booze, and also the fact that he's sandwiched against what is apparently quite a well-maintained body. He picks up his cider from the bar and follows in Porthos's pleasantly clear wake until they can breathe again.

“So where's the rest of your unit then?” says Porthos.

“Half of them aren't here,” says Aramis. “Rest of 'em are watching the band.”

Porthos follows him over to the marquee, and they take seats at a table littered with greasy paper plates and plastic empties. Porthos exchanges nods and hellos with a couple of familiar faces. The band aren't bad, the singer no Freddie Mercury but missing the high notes with good humour and grace. Someone's six-year-old daughter is attempting to headbang in front of the low stage, clad in a striped sundress and pink sparkly fairy wings.

“So when you going in, Arrer?” bellows one of Aramis's unit over the band.

“Next Monday,” Aramis shouts back.

“Day surgery, is it?”

“No, overnight, I'll be out the day after, staying down there for a few days before I travel back though.”

“You'll need it,” shouts his friend. “Did I tell yer about the time I had my appendix out?”

“Only five times,” Aramis yells with a grin.

“You going into hospital?” says Porthos, finding himself surprisingly concerned.

Aramis looks up at him and there's something sharply perceptive in his eyes. He leans over to catch Porthos's ear.

“Long story,” he says. “I'll tell you the whole thing later.”

“Nothing serious though, I hope?”

Aramis gives him a complicated smile.

“Nothing bad,” he says.

 

Come six o'clock most of the families are packing up and leaving. Dads wrangle grizzling, overtired children and tipsy wives into taxis and crews of sweating middle-aged mates wedge themselves into ther sober colleagues' cars. The remainder are the young guys and the hardcore drinkers – among them most of the high-ranking officers, Porthos notes without a lot of surprise. Most of Aramis's mates have gone, and the remainder have filtered away to prop up the bar indoors where there's pool to play. He's left alone with the little guy at the table. Behind Aramis the band are packing up, leisurely settling their instruments into battered cases and unfastening way too many wingnuts to dismantle the drums.

“So what's this about you and hospital?” asks Porthos, remembering suddenly.

Aramis glances over Porthos's shoulder reflexively, but appears to see nothing untoward.

“Yeah,” he says. “I'm not starting in Crime for another two months. Got some medical leave first.”

Porthos waits.

“I'm having my chest op,” says Aramis.

“You've lost me.”

Aramis glances awkwardly down at his chest. “You know,” he says. “Saying goodbye to the girls.”

It takes Porthos a minute to figure it out. “Oh,” he says. “Right.”

There's an awkward silence.

“Big step, then,” Porthos tries.

“I can't believe I'm doing it,” Aramis says. “It's really... weird.”

_You're telling me_ , Porthos narrowly avoids saying out loud.

“You going into the General, then?” he asks, falling back to the safer world of minor details for now.

“Christ no,” says Aramis. “They've never even seen anyone like me. I'm seeing a specialist, this private guy down in Brighton.”

“Private? Nice.”

“They contract out because nobody else knows how to do it,” Aramis replies. This is clearly nothing more than shop talk to him. 

“How long'll it take you to get back on your feet?”

“Shouldn't be that long,” Aramis says. “Depends how bad the swelling is and how much I can move my arms. I should be able to look after myself after a week or so, at least.”

“You got someone to stay with you till then?”

“Yeah... a friend's coming down.”

The conversation peters out again. Porthos contemplates the evening ahead of him and decides he might as well take the leap.

“So you're leaving the station, then,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Aramis absently. He's looking away, eyes distant.

“I guess we won't be seeing each other around.”

Aramis glances up at him. “No, probably not.”

“Stop me if I'm out of line,” says Porthos, “but I wouldn't like to lose touch with you.”

Aramis focuses then, meeting his eyes. Porthos holds his gaze, more than long enough to make his point. The corner of Aramis's mouth begins to curl into a smile.

“It would be a shame,” he replies. 

“So... how are you getting home?”

“Want to share a cab?”

 

They get takeaway and share it on the rickety table in Aramis's rented bedsit. It's neat and tidy, apart from a stack of washing up by the sink. The sofa has a cream-coloured throw sagging over the back of it, and the bedclothes are a pleasant shade of brown. Aramis cracks open more beer from his fridge, and they both become loose and expansive. When their knees brush between mouthfuls of food, Aramis steals a bashful glance at him and leans in, lengthening the touch. Porthos throws caution to the wind, and reaches over to take his hand.

“Yoink,” says Aramis, crossing his spare arm over and grabbing the last spring roll. Porthos laughs, and Aramis strokes the back of his hand with his thumb.

“Come on,” he says. “Let's sit down.”

 

Aramis loves this part. The slow erosion of the space between two bodies, the sheer depth of the mystery that is two people who don't yet know how it's going to be. Porthos is immense, and warm; heat radiates off him. Maybe it's the beer. Aramis wants to draw his feet up on the sofa and snuggle into Porthos's side. He 's so used to the chafe of the binder as he twists to speak – but he's so close to the day when he won't need it, too. He wonders what it'll be like to be this close to somebody, once the binder and all it conceals are gone.

“Penny for them,” says Porthos softly, extending a finger to lift his chin.

“Sorry,” says Aramis. “I was miles away.”

“Look, if you want me to leave you alone -”

“No!” says Aramis hastily. “No, you don't have to leave. I don't want you to. It's just – well, it's a weird time for me right now.”

“I wish I knew more of the story,” says Porthos. “I feel like I've come in half way through the film.”

“Don't worry,” says Aramis softly. “You're stealing the whole show.” He folds Porthos's fingers into his hand and grazes his lips across earth-toned skin. He wants to say _it's okay_ and _there's time for everything_ and _for christ's sake kiss me_ and ten or twenty or a hundred other things, but he doesn't want to chatter and kill the mood. He looks up at Porthos with everything he's feeling in his eyes.

Porthos might be big but that doesn't make him slow. He's hesitant, but Aramis encourages his every movement, mirroring him as he leans in, and when their lips brush it's like the first words of a long, long, meaningful conversation.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos helps out.

_Ten days later_

 

“Yeah, so about that back on my feet after a week thing?” says Aramis's tinny voice over the phone.

“You need a hand with something?”

“It's not that important, seriously, it'll wait -”

“No worries,” says Porthos. “I'll be with you in half an hour.”

 

Porthos rings the doorbell and waits. He hears Aramis's footsteps come quickly towards the door, then watches in confusion as Aramis takes several seconds to reach up and unlock it. He seems to be standing on tiptoes and leaning over sideways, so as to reach the catch without moving his elbow away from his side.

“Hey,” he says, looking flustered, when the door finally swings open.

“You all right?” says Porthos.

“What, apart from the gaping hole where my tits used to be? Yes, I'm fine.”

“You looked like you were having trouble with the door.”

Aramis looks embarrassed, bizarrely. “Yeah,” he says. “It swelled up more than I was expecting. I can't move my arms at all.”

“You mean, like, outwards?”

“Yeah, or up, or whatever - I'm basically a penguin,” says Aramis, flapping his hands and forearms at his sides. “ I can clean my teeth, but I have to bend down. They don't go much further up than here.” He demonstrates, his elbows coming a few inches out from his sides. “Anyway come in, sorry about the state of the place, I'm not exactly doing housework right now.”

“What was it you wanted help with?”

Aramis reddens. “See I had it all planned, and I bought all this instant food to make when I got back... only there's no room in this bloody kitchen and I left the bag on top of the cupboard.”

Porthos looks up, sees a carrier bag sitting atop the wall cupboard, and laughs aloud. Aramis turns redder still. “Fuck off,” he says. “I was stressed, all right?”

“I'm not judging,” says Porthos. “Penguin boy.”

Aramis twists awkwardly and flails a foot in the attempt to kick him in the shin. Porthos ends up making him pasta'n'sauce, and staying until his own stomach growls in protest.

“I wish you could say stay the night,” says Aramis. “But I need all the sleep I can get right now.” He glances at the bed; there's a large wedge-shaped cushion at the head end, the usual pillow perched atop like icing on a capsized cake. There are dark rings gathering under his eyes and he's moving noticeably slower than when Porthos arrived.

“Nah,” says Porthos. “You rest up. Take care of yourself.”

“Except when I have to ring you up to do it for me.”

“I told you,” says Porthos. “No worries.” He leans down. There’s an electric pause, then he gives Aramis a gentle kiss on the mouth.

“Bastard,” sighs Aramis. “I'm not made of glass.”

“Well don’t go having operations then,” Porthos says, nuzzling behind his ear.

“I hate you. Phone me tomorrow night?”

“All right.”

 

Tomorrow night they spend cuddled up watching Hot Shots Part Deux on Porthos's sofa. Aramis dozes off and on through the film, his arms folded over his waist, just enough room for Porthos to slip his hands underneath them and hold him gently to his side. The night after that, Porthos answers what he thinks is another call for help, and is somewhat startled to be shoved against the hallway wall and kissed with considerable determination.

“I’m sick of this,” says Aramis, breaking for air.

“What?” says Porthos, whose brain hasn’t quite caught up yet.

“Pretending we don’t want to jump each other.”

“I never said that-”

Aramis cuts him off with a kiss, palms his half-hard cock through his jeans, and proceeds to remove it from them and suck Porthos’s brains out through the tip. This time it’s Porthos who falls asleep in the middle of the film.

 

It becomes a routine over the next fortnight; when Porthos isn't on a night shift, Aramis will come to him or he'll to go Mis, and they'll co-operate to make dinner. For the most part, they spend the rest of the evening talking or cuddling until Aramis starts to yawn - although Aramis occasionally straddles his lap with a wicked gleam in his eyes, and they wind up shirtless and flushed in each other’s arms. There’s a huge black compression bandage over Aramis’s chest which fastens at the front with Velcro and, comically, says LONSDALE upside down on one side. The corners of a stick-on dressing peek over the top near where it runs around his sides. Aramis moves stuffly and when he does bend enough to make the bandage move he flaps his hands and apologises for the smell - frankly, Porthos has come across a lot worse, and tells him as much.

“It’s like the bathroom bin in the middle of your period!” Aramis complains.

“I’ll take your word for that,” says Porthos.

Aramis hits him penguin-style again.

 

Ten days later, it occurs to Porthos to ask Aramis something. He slides his arms around Aramis’s waist - he can move his arms enough that it’s not painful now - and tugs him close.

“I been thinking,” he says. “You keep going down on me, but I’ve never returned the favour. How about it?”

Aramis looks at him, and tilts his head.

“You know what?” says Aramis.

“What?”

“I'm going to make you wait for a change.”

“Whaaaat?”

“Till I get back from Brighton.”

“Eh? What's in Brighton?”

“The dressing's coming off the day after tomorrow. I get to be properly clean again.”

“Woah.” says Porthos. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Well it can’t be staying on forever, can it?”

“Spose not. How you getting down there?”

“Train, it'll be fine.”

“You sure you don't want me to come with you?”

“Porthos,” Aramis laughs. “I don't need a nurse. And besides you've got to work.”

“I could get a day off.”

“No,” says Aramis firmly. “Besides, it's not going to be pleasant, they've got to take the staples out as well.”

“Staples?”

“The ones that are holding my nipples on.”

Porthos is suddenly and absolutely not in the mood for sex.

“You didn't tell me that bit,” he says.

“I was trying not to think about it,” replies Aramis. There’s a faintly brittle edge in his voice. “When he told me what they do I felt like a bloody Blue Peter model. Here's one I made earlier.”

“Hang on – why do they have to hold your nipples on?”

“Because they're skin grafts, they move them so it looks more normal – look, pass me that piece of paper, I'll draw you a diagram.”

Porthos goes home that night much the wiser, and fairly sure he'll never get an erection again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, the surgical procedure Mis is talking about in this chapter is known as double incision - the other most frequently used technique for trans men is called periareolar, but it's not as common as DI. Google it if you want to know more (I recommend the search term "ftm double incision surgery" on Google Images) but readers with breasts be warned, it's not a pleasant thing to figure out!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More like the second half of the last chapter, really, but anyway. Warning for graphic descriptions of surgical stuff. Otherwise... enjoy?

“Mister D'Herblay?”

The hospital is pleasant; uncrowded, carpeted and furnished with comfortable easy chairs. Aramis has never felt so relaxed in a medical setting in his life. He stands up, smiles at the nurse – he recognises her from the pre-op consultation – and follows her into the surgeon's office. It’s decorated in soothing blues and greys, and at least as big as Aramis’s entire flat.

There's a little small talk, a few questions about how he's feeling and so on, and then the moment of truth. He stands, and walks the momentous path across the carpet to a vinyl couch. The nurse draws a curtain behind him, and he slowly takes off his button-down shirt. His hands hesitate for a moment on the velcro of the neoprene belt compressing him. He recalls briefly the first evening after the operation, when he removed it to change it for the spare; he only half-saw the dressing, still square and unwrinkled then, his senses overwhelmed by the horrible feeling of his whole chest wall hanging loose. It felt like a fleshy curtain, dangling from somewhere beneath his collarbones, nothing beneath to keep it attached and a slow burning pain where the incisions were. He’d slapped the clean spare compression belt back on and scrupulously kept it tight all fortnight. And now… now it stops. Now he finds out.

He rips the belt away, sets it down on the chair, toes off his shoes and lies down.

“I’m ready,” he says.

 

The nurse is, like all nurses, gifted at putting people at ease. Aramis is grateful to her. She chatters about the weather and the vicissitudes of dressings in summer, sterile packages crackling in her hands as she lays out various necessities. Aramis doesn’t watch, eyes flicking between the grey surgical curtains at the foot and side of the bed and the blue vinyl wallpaper with its mottled half-plain design. The sense of enclosure, of privacy, is comforting. It seems to take forever for the surgeon to come back in, still wreathed in genial smiles and glowing with purpose. Aramis lets his head drop back, and trusts himself to the hands of his creator.

 

The first thing they do is peel off the sticky, revolting dressing that's been plastered to his chest for a fortnight; it vanishes from his field of vision, along with its repellent, memory-laden smell of rotting blood. He doesn’t hear the comments they exchange, registering only that they’re speaking. Gently they wipe away the dry blood; the dressing has left patches of clinging adhesive behind and next they rub these away with reeking, alcohol-soaked wipes. And then the genial little surgeon leans over him with what should definitely be classed as an instrument of torture. It looks almost exactly like an office staple remover, but longer and leggier, like a plant that’s been fighting to reach the sun. Aramis squeezes his eyes shut as it approaches his skin.

There's a tweak and a brief sting of pain on his left side. “One,” says the surgeon. The shock makes him jump more than the pain.

There are twenty, all in all; a rosette of metal around each nipple like a masochist’s Valentine. Some of them hurt more than others. They all feel like a pull, as if they've tried to heal and become part of his skin. Aramis keeps his eyes closed the whole time.

“And that's the lot.”

The surgeon and the nurse withdraw to tidy up; Aramis can hear them bantering over the sink as they wash their hands, joking about spending their working days high on the alcohol from the adhesive-removing wipes. He sits up carefully, and looks down at himself.

One of his nipples is a huge, purple-black scab. He recalls the surgeon saying that was a good thing and the other one should soon look like that too. He can see red pinpricks in a constellation around both of them; that must be where the staples have been removed. He touches the little marks gingerly, but they barely hurt. The long horizontal wounds below the nipples are angry-looking, crusted here and there with more dark scabs, and uneven at the ends where the sutures gather the skin up slightly. He feels tight across his chest between the scars, as if there's not enough skin there any more. Maybe there's not.

The surgeon reappears. Aramis looks up at him blankly.

“Would you like to take a look?” he asks.

“Well, yes,” Aramis replies awkwardly.

The surgeon goes to the foot of the couch. With what is not quite too modest to be called a flourish, he reaches up and pulls aside the medical curtain that Aramis had thought simply covered the wall. Behind it is an immense expanse of mirror.

Atamis stands beside the grey vinyl couch bare-chested, and looks at himself.

Same body. Same face. Same shoulders, same eyes. Those dark angry markings on his chest. But... except for the wounds there's nothing there any more. No curves, no contours, no loose and moving flesh. And he feels… angry. The body in the mirror is damaged and raw; it looks ill, wrong, not smooth and complete and perfect the way his chest ought to be. He's injured, he resents the scabs and the stitches and the knowledge his nipples will probably always be numb, hell, he hates the whole fact that half the reason he had to have himself cut up at all was to fit in in an idiotic world.

But he doesn’t for a single moment feel as if he’s lost anything.

Relief seeps through him. He's done the right thing, he knows it now, finally. And time will only make the scars fade. Body and mind.

“Welcome to the rest of your life,” he says quietly, to his reflection.

“Exactly,” says the surgeon, with an immense air of pride. It feels like an interruption.

He leaves the hospital wondering if his reaction disappointed the man.

 

On the train home Aramis looks down at his new chest, quietly announcing itself under his T-shirt, and wonders if he’ll ever really be able to explain to Porthos what it’s like to see yourself that way, as a _thing_. Your own body cut apart and reassembled, a jigsaw made to please society’s judgemental eyes. He reminds himself, forcefully, that he _chose_ this; that he did it because his gut feelings reached the conclusion he couldn’t carry on living with his breasts. And today was proof that they’d been right.

Let it go, he tells himself, let it go.

Porthos meets him at the station with a helium balloon shaped like a cake. Aramis shakes his head and hugs him hard.


End file.
